Drones and auto-termites

So here are the rules: The playing board's divided into three
Sections; they're called sections one, two and three. You're probably
on section one right now; thirty days, they give those out like ecstasy
at playtime. Section two's a tricky little fucker, six months. I think
the magistrates might even look at those ones, not that it matters
though, 'cos they're masons and they'll do what the establishment tells
them - they're the master architects of the machine and one of the few
groups who now how deeply we've all been blinded.
If you're lucky they'll decide you're never gong to be economically
viable and they'll grant you the cream of the crop; a section three:
Indefinite internment without trial. Sounds like human rights abuse and
it is if you're one of them or, worse still, one of those blind
sons-of-bitches. But to the likes of us, Lupton, it a gift from God -
absolute freedom from responsibility - you can do what the fuck you
want and if you get caught you just declare your status. It's a bit
like being a sadhu in India. They have the right to do anything as long
as they have no home, possessions and no money.
They don't work; they don't need to. They're on the sidelines of life
as it's sold to the blind. They've seen through the lies and refused to
play the game so they get let off. There their considered holy, even
enlightened, and are absolved of the usual heartbreaking grind of
feeding the machine. Here we're considered nuts and disqualified from
normal social privileges: The sort of privilege that allows you to live
in mental bondage for fifty years of your life to eat, sleep and shit
like a corporate lapdog so that you can eat the food that God provided
for free and then if you've been good and not said any of the wrong
things, you can earn enough freedom to retire and have a month's
holiday in the Far East, when you could have walked there in half the
time.
We're not allowed to do that, Lupton!!! That's the ultimate punishment
they have at their disposal; to remove our freedom! - to set us free
from the soul-destroying slavery of serving them and keep us like
monkeys in a zoo as examples to the rest. It's so cynically absurd its
absolutely beautiful in its own way.
We can do absolutely whatever takes our fancy and the worst they can do
is feel sorry for us.

Beautiful, isn't it, in its own obscene way; the way they dig their own
hole? The way they go blindly like termites about the mundane business
of their own bondage? The glee with which they embrace their own
enslavement; adore their own death, thrive on their degradation.
Surprising, isn't it, that nobody seems to care though everyone seems
to know? How everyone sees and yet no-one voices the obvious.
Sickening, isn't it, the powerlessness with which they accept the
inevitability of their own divinely crafted end; the ultimate futility
of their being, their breathing, their birthing and their endeavours?
Comical, isn't it, the divine humour that drives this machine - the
grand joke of man's achievements? And yet it's pointless to try and
explain. To try to open their eyes and hearts to what they already know
so well to be the truth - that they're committing mass murder, mass
suicide, genocide. Grand, isn't it, I say grand, that such a race of
cosmic drones should value their own poisonous creation as their
salvation, their death as their hope.

They're blind, Lupton, hopelessly blind and yet to see would kill them
just as surely as if we cut off their oxygen supply. The
heart-wrenching realisation that their self-destruction would cause the
poor creatures would finish them even faster than their present
suicide. They'd be lost, poor darlings, crushed by the awful
disappointment of knowing that it's all been for nothing. They've even
been to the moon in their search for a reason for being here. And why?
Even I could have told them there's nothing there! You can see from
here that there's nothing there worth seeing. And yet they had to. They
had to do it to prove the obsession of the machine. They honestly
believe that progress carries them forward. They really seem to think
that this progressive form of self-destructive insanity is somehow
going to save them.

Like a drowning man who gets it into his head that if he swims
downwards even further he will somehow reach some hidden secret supply
of oxygen. They can't stop. Their delusion is the only thing that keeps
them going. The blind desperation that tells them that if they dare to
open their eyes and see what they know to be true then they will be
forced to admit that they're already dead. Dead and buried. Killed by
the all-devouring, merciless, soul-crushing machine. There is no
escape, Lupton, the machine always wins. It has to. It's what it was
created to do. And we are all slaves to it whether we know it or not.
Look at it Lupton. I ask you: Is it not beautiful?
Like termites.

Ultimately, of course, the Japanese are to blame. Not because of their
oh-so-clever miniature electronic devices, nor their penchant for mass
killing, mass suicide and mass victimism, but for their insistence on
conformity. To er is human, but to be an individual is a crime to our
little yellow cousins. They've created an entire culture out of
obscurity and blind refusal to have an identity or to in any way
express themselves as individuals. This is in itself of course very
virtuous, but it's contagious and therein lies the problem. They've
spread their nasty little yellow disease to every corner of the world
and now we all crawl around like anonymous termites and busy ourselves
with creating and perfecting our own certain demise.

And it was once so beautiful, so simple, so perfect, so I guess it
couldn't last. Nothing that perfect could ever sustain man. He had to
go to the moon - he couldn't handle perfection so he had to set about
destroying it - and that's where we fit in, Lupton. Don't you see?
We're the last vestige of hope for this benighted planet. Not you and I
personally, at least not as such, not on our own, but we have seen it!
We have touched and felt and seen the wonders of the Truth and there
can be no return for us.
Have you ever seen a pattern in wallpaper, Lupton, a face? Once you've
seen it, you can never again look at it as it once was, the new face
will always be there. You can squint and concentrate and force yourself
to see it as it once was, but the face will always be back to haunt
you. Always.

Have you ever given a mirror to a monkey, Lupton?
It panics. It panics because it can't understand and what it can't
understand it has to kill. But man - if man can't understand, he
worships. And then he uses that worship to kill others and this is his
disease. This is the soul sickness of the disease. That we will always
worship the image of ourselves because we were never intended to see
it! We were never intended to be this intelligent! Look at them,
Lupton!!!! Look at those crazed, demented, termite mother-fuckers,
buzzing around creating ever greater edifices; monuments to their own
poisonous intelligence; witness their self-deification! See their
insanity! Feel their disease! Smell their deteriorating, decomposing
souls, laugh at their arrogance and then buy their products, buy them
because you have no choice, none of them has a choice anymore, Lupton,
but we all think we do and that is our insanity. That is our madness,
and it will be our collective death.

If there was ever even a moment's global silence the spell would be
broken. We would be back to the perfection of creation. Back to the
natural state we were intended to live in. All would be love and light
and harmony and perfect understanding and then, and only then, could we
ever hope to be able to live as our Maker intended us to live. Then we
would be able to simply be and let others be in their original, perfect
state and we would all understand. But it can't happen because there
never is a moment's peace. There is never a pause, no respite, even for
a second, from the raving, pulsing, buzzing mind-reading of the
all-powerful human disease of the machine, and do you know why?
Because it controls the very frequency we vibrate at, that's why,
Lupton. It doesn't just control our thoughts, it controls our thinking,
our ability to think and our very souls.
And they call it education. They call it civilization. They call it
religion, science, philosophy. It's blindness, Lupton, it's a disease
and I call it the machine.